


The Most Virtuous Duck

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Byron - Freeform, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Jean de la Fontaine, Literary References, Rousseau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Combeferre has quasi-canonical issues with ducks, Jehan adores them, and Bahorel laughs a lot. Unashamed silliness and gratuitous literary references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Virtuous Duck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pilferingapples](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pilferingapples).



“I freely admit that there is little to like or admire in Byron’s relationship with his wife,” Jehan said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on his palms as he leaned his elbows on the table, “but if I ever fall in love with a woman and she refers to me as her ‘dearest duck,’ I will feel we have achieved something very particular and enduring.”

Bahorel, beside him, laughed in appreciation, but Combeferre looked rather shocked. “Jehan,” he said, “you are in all respects far better than a duck, and I cannot see why you should wish to be compared to one.”

Jehan’s head tilted as his eyebrows contracted. “But Combeferre,” he said, “the duck is a noble creature! Why, in the fables of La Fontaine, was it not two ducks who offered to help the tortoise rise to the skies, to see kingdoms and republics? That should I very much like to do.”

“The method the ducks chose was hardly foolproof,” Combeferre pointed out. “The tortoise fell to its death.”

“Only because it opened its mouth to boast,” Jehan reminded him indignantly. “It wasn’t the ducks’ fault.”

“Still,” said Combeferre, “you can’t base your opinion of ducks off one fable. It is a story and a poem, written for children; it is not observable fact.”

Jehan pulled himself up dangerously (“Better look out, Combeferre,” warned Bahorel with a chuckle), and cleared his throat. “A poetic opinion of ducks,” he said, “is worth quite as much as a scientific one. Besides, I have significant personal experience with ducks; how much have you? You grew up well inside Lyon; I doubt you could have had the joy of keeping one as a pet.”

“I also spent two years living with an uncle of mine, a priest at a country parish,” Combeferre countered. “I observed plenty of ducks then.”

“How old were you then?”

“Between four and six.”

“And you were already set against them?” Jehan looked heartbroken.

Combeferre started going red. “A flock of them chased me because I was eating bread and butter out of doors. My uncle was not around, I was still very small, and in general I found the experience mildly terrifying.”

Jehan and Bahorel glanced at each other, and then Jehan stood so emphatically as to knock his chair over. “That is unconscionable,” he said. “For them to mob a small boy in such a manner! What unvirtuous creatures! We must reintroduce you to ducks, that you may know instead all that is good in the species. Come, Bahorel.”

Bahorel shrugged at the bewildered Combeferre, and followed Jehan out.

——

“Where are we going?” Bahorel asked, as Jehan dragged him through the crowded streets. “Come, my friend, have you a plan? How are we going to find a duck in order to teach Combeferre the error of his ways? If you plan to borrow one from a local park, then I promise I will face down any gendarmes who accuse you of theft, but—”

Jehan shook his head, not even pausing to turn and look at Bahorel. “The ducks who inhabit the parks dwell happily. It is better to rescue one from misfortune.”

“What?”

Jehan sighed, as if Bahorel should have understood immediately. “We’re going to the market at Les Halles. Now _come on!_ ”

“Er, Jehan,” Bahorel said, with an odd feeling that he had been left as the voice of reason, “you know that the purchase of a duck is a rather permanent thing…”

But Jehan, hurrying on, did not hear him.

——

“I want to buy a duck,” Jehan said. The stall owner stared at him.

“One of my ducks, monsieur?” he said, obviously unused to having bourgeois students come by.

“Yes,” said Jehan. “Do you know which has the sweetest nature?”

The stall owner coughed. “No monsieur,” he said flatly. “None of my business to find out. Haven’t got the time to do it if I wanted to, neither.”

Jehan smiled understandingly. “That’s all right. Do you, um, do you mind if I—” And suddenly he was blushing, staring at the ground in a fit of shyness. Bahorel stepped up beside him.

“We’d like to make ourselves acquainted with your ducks,” he said. “Just briefly; we promise not to trouble you. And we can pay for the inconvenience.”

“I don’t understand,” said the stall owner.

Bahorel leaned closer. “He’s a poet,” he whispered, with a shrug of his shoulders as if to say, “what can you do?” The man sighed and let them through, as Bahorel passed the man a coin and Jehan murmured his ecstatic thanks.

Many of the ducks made no response to Jehan crouching down and chatting with them, as he had nothing to feed them, and a few even snapped at his fingers. One, however, came waddling over when he called, even allowing him to stroke it. Jehan looked up at Bahorel, a radiant smile on his face, and Bahorel grinned in return.

“Monsieur,” he said to the stall owner, “we’ve found our duck.”

Jehan dug in his pocket very carefully to find money for Bahorel to pay with, doing his utmost not to startle the duck, which was now permitting him to pick it up.

“Ah, a young one,” said the stall owner. “But she’ll grow into a nice layer, she will.”

“She’s beautiful,” said Jehan. “She’s, oh—kindness, grace, and virtue in the shape of a duck! She is _good_ , and goodness comes very near to grandeur; thus, she is a grand duck.”

The stall owner looked alarmed. Bahorel threw him a grin and a cheerful “Pleasure doing business with you!” as he and Jehan took the duck and headed away from the market.

——

“Let them consecrate wheat in honor of the duck!” cried Jehan, as they entered the café where Combeferre still sat studying. “So fair a maid that she might indeed be one of the transformed daughters of King Pieros, as Nicander related!”

“From my study of the Greek, the word used is closer in meaning to pigeon,” Combeferre began, “and Aristophanes—”

But then he looked up and saw the duck which lay placidly in Jehan’s arms.

“Well,” he said. “Well.”

“We went to the market at Les Halles,” said Bahorel happily, leaning against the doorpost. “This duck now belongs to Jehan, so I suggest the two of you make one another’s acquaintance.”

Combeferre took a deep breath. “What is her name, then?” he asked.

“She hasn’t got one yet,” Jehan answered. “But she’s soft. And she liked it when I stroked her. You should try.”

“I think not,” said Combeferre.

“Why not?”

“Did Bahorel?” Combeferre stalled.

Bahorel scoffed. “I’d break the poor thing. And then I’d be left to face Jehan’s rage. So no, I didn’t.”

Combeferre lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t see why I must.”

Jehan sighed patiently. “Because,” he said, “you are kind, loving, gentle, virtuous. So is my dear duck. Thus, your friendship should be a perfect one.”

“How, pray tell, is a duck virtuous?” asked Combeferre, one eyebrow lifted and a corner of his mouth quirking up.

“According to Rousseau’s thought,” said Jehan proudly. “Man is meant to exist in the state of nature. To exist in the state of nature is virtuous. This duck exists in the state of nature; therefore, she is virtuous.”

“A man and a duck are not the same,” said Combeferre, “but nevertheless…I suppose I see your point. She could indeed be virtuous in the manner that ducks are capable of.”

And he reached out a hand to stroke her back. She turned her head to look at him, but did not panic, so he picked up a piece of bread from the table and offered it to her. She ate it eagerly yet harmlessly from his hand.

“There, see!” cooed Jehan. “A very virtuous duck.”

Bahorel, laughing again, interposed from the doorway. “The problem with the ducks that chased you, Combeferre, must have been that they’d been corrupted by society. You know, living in a herd, in a village, living by the rule of the strongest and enacting tyranny of the majority of the minority by trying to steal from small children. This one must have come directly from a farm. She is the Rousseauian ideal.”

“Better call her Emilie then,” Combeferre said. He stroked her again. “She is very soft.”

At that moment, Louison came into the back room, and Jehan quickly sat down facing the wall in an attempt to hide the fact that he was holding a duck.

“Jehan,” Combeferre whispered, “the duck can’t stay here.”

“I can’t take her home!” Jehan hissed. “ _I have a cat!_ ”

Combeferre took Emilie home.

——

Two days later, he had found a home for her at a small family farm on the outskirts of Paris, where he told the woman who answered the door that the duck was promised to be a good layer, and asked that—for the sake of a friend, who was devastated that he couldn’t keep her—she be allowed to live happily. The woman agreed.

As he turned to leave, a little boy of about four called after him. “M’sieu,” he said, “did you bring us a duck?”

“Yes, I did,” said Combeferre.

“Is she nice?” said the boy.

Combeferre crouched down next to him. “She is very nice,” he said. “She is the most virtuous duck ever to exist in a state of nature.”


End file.
